The Bell Tolls for No One

  My penis got hard again. I inserted it into her butt.

  “We’re . . . . ouch!—go easy there! . . . we’re separated.”

  “Did you like my reading?”

  “Oooh, goddamn it! Easy there! Yes, the reading was great. I liked it better than Corso’s reading.”

  “Corso? You’ve heard him? How about Kandel?”

  “I missed the Kandel . . . .”

  “I met Corso the other night,” I said.

  “Ah, you’ve met him?—Please! It doesn’t feel bad, but go easy . . . . What was Corso like?”

  “Fine, he was fine. I’d heard he was very mouthy, but really he wasn’t. Really gentle and entertaining . . . .”

  “Listen, don’t rip me up!”

  “He wore this white outfit with little rivulets and strings hanging off of it. He wore beads, an amulet . . . .”

  “That’s good, that’s good . . . .”

  “What’s good?”

  “You’re going good, or maybe I’m getting used to it.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “OW! Not that!”

  “Corso read the cards. He said I was POWER!”

  “Oh, I believe it!”

  “Corso asked me why I didn’t wear any beads or rings . . . .”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I . . . .”

  “Listen, take it OUT, you’re KILLING ME!”

  I pulled it out. She turned around. I was right. It was the one with the missing tooth. She looked down at me.

  “Do you mind if I kiss it?” she asked.

  “Not really,” I said.

  “They say I’m the greatest poet since Rimbaud,” I said.

  “Go ahead,” I said, “go ahead.”

  “I gave the one kid a bottle,” I said, “I gave the other one an apple.”

  “You’ve got a nice place here,” I said.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Oh Jesus!” I said.

  “Uh uh uh uh uh, oh uh oh uh,” I said.

  She went to the bathroom. When she got back she climbed into bed and looked at me.

  “I’ve bought all your books, I’ve read all your books.”

  “Greatest since Rimbaud,” I said.

  “How come they call you ‘Hank’?”

  “Charles is really my middle name.”

  “Do you like to give poetry readings?”

  “Yes, when they end like this one.”

  I got up and began to dress.

  “Will you write me?” she asked.

  “Nancy, please write your address on this piece of paper.”

  I handed her paper and pen. Twenty minutes later I was taking a taxi back to the place of my host. He wanted to know where I’d been. I told him, other side of town. The next day I took the plane back to L.A. I remembered the lady with fondness for several days, then I forgot about her. I’m not using her real name in this story but she was then just separated from an underground poet of some reputation. Well, the way I remembered her again was this. I’d had some poems accepted by this mag up near Frisco and the editor liked to write these long letters. Well, in this letter the editor said he was up drinking with this underground poet the night before and the poet made them all laugh by telling them how he screwed this certain lady in the ass in a Portland hotel room, and this lady was one of the powers in The National Foundation of the Arts outfit, the one that awarded grants. Well, I answered the letter, since K. likes to laugh so much, you tell him that I met his wife one night after reading at the University of . . . . I didn’t hear from the editor again or the underground poet, and I didn’t write the lady and I never met Corso again, and if anybody sees Corso you tell him that I don’t like to wear rings just because I don’t like to wear rings, and that’s sufficient enough and that’s also the end of this story.

  She drove him down Sunset and they had breakfast in the afternoon at a place with a Japanese waiter with long hair. There were long hairs and Hollywood types all about. Vicki ordered. Vicki was buying. Vicki suggested the waffles and eggs, plus. He said, “All right, I’ll take the sausage, and it feels good to be a gigolo.” She suggested a drink—something new to him—champagne and orange juice. Hank said that would be all right.

  “Is it over?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Continue. And eat waffles with nice ladies. And talk.”

  “What are you going to do about me?” she asked.

  “I’m not going to try to force myself on you,” he said.

  “There’s no way you can.”

  The drinks arrived.

  “Did you love her?”

  “Shit, yes. My second love. I’ve been in love twice in 50 years. That’s not bad, is it?”

  “All you need to beat it,” Vicki said, “is time, time and doing your work and meeting other people.”

  “That’s what I’m doing. How’re you doing?”

  “Two marriages. Ten years and four years. Other men, plenty of other men, but not for too long.”

  “Nothing seems to last,” said Hank.

  “Have you ever known of a happy marriage?”

  “No, and no happy shackjobs or relationships either.”

  “What goes wrong?”

  “Well, I’d say, presuming that everything else is fairly in order, that somehow the chemical admixture always seems improper.”

  They finished their drinks. Breakfast had arrived.

  “Tell me about the admixture.”

  “It’s always the same. There is one person who cares very much and one person who doesn’t seem to care, or who only half-cares. The one who doesn’t care too much is in control. The relationship ends when the one who doesn’t care gets tired of the game.”

  “Which ends have you been on, Hank?”

  “Both ends. This last time, I cared.”

  “The waffles are good, aren’t they?”

  “Damned good.”

  They ate quietly, then had another drink. Vicki picked up the tab. Nine dollars. Jesus. He walked back and left a tip. They walked to the car.

  “You’re going to stop drinking, aren’t you?”

  “Sure. First stages of the split, you know. Self-pity.”

  “Listen, ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been in some kind of turmoil, sitting with a drink in your hand.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “I know you. I used to come visit you. Don’t you remember?”

  “I think I do.”

  Vicki backed the car out. “Why do all the young girls take the old men? Why don’t they leave me some of the old men?”

  “They just did. Last Friday afternoon.”

  She turned down Sunset. “Well, where do you want to go?”

  “Ta ta . . . you know I’m in agony. What’s appropriate?”

  “How’s your sense of humor?”

  “They say it’s all right.”

  “What do you say?”

  “I say it’s all right.”

  Vicki drove along. Hank sat in the sunshine thinking, well, I’m out of it now. If I’m intelligent at all I’ll stay out of the woman game. But it’s difficult. I had four years of perfect solitude and strength, and then one knocked on the door . . .

  Vicki turned into a driveway and they were in The Hollywood Cemetery. She followed the circling drive, then she parked and they got out.

  They began to walk. There wasn’t anybody else about. They had the whole cemetery to themselves on a Sunday.

  “Look, this is it . . . ”

  They walked about, looking at the stones.

  “Look,” she said, “Tyrone Power is a bench. Let’s sit on Tyrone Power!”

  They went and sat on Tyrone Power. He was a bench and he was made of cement. They sat on him.

  “Oh,” said Vicki, “I just loved Tyrone Power and now he’s made himself into a bench and he allows me to sit on him. I think that’s nice!”

&
nbsp; They sat on Tyrone Power a while and then got up and walked about. And there was Griffith, one of the beginners, he had this huge spike snarling into the sky.

  There were many separate tombs above the ground, like little cement houses with locked steel front doors. Hank walked up and tried his keys on one of the doors. No good. You couldn’t visit them.

  They walked some more. Then they saw the tomb of Douglas Fairbanks. Douglas Fairbanks was really laid out. “Goodnight, Sweet Prince . . . ” They all got overdosed on Goodnight Sweet Prince.

  His tomb was above the ground and Douglas had his own private lake, quite a large one. They walked up the steps to the tomb and then went around behind it and sat on a bench there.

  “Look,” she said, “the ants are getting into Douglas.”

  It was true. There was a little hole in the tomb and the ants were going in there.

  “We should fuck back here,” said Vicki. “Don’t you think it would be nice to fuck back here?”

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t get it up back here.”

  Hank reached out and kissed her. It was a long slow kiss among the dead . . .

  “Let’s go see the Sheikh,” she said, “let’s go see the fag.”

  “All right.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Rudolph Valentino.”

  They walked into the large building and began looking for Rudolph.

  “The newspapers used to make a lot of it. People used to come on his death anniversary. Along with a lady in black. Now they don’t come anymore. People die. But love dies faster.”

  “Well, we’re going to see him.”

  It took some searching. Rudolph had had an economy layout, it seemed. He was down near the bottom and near the corner and in between and below all those other bodies. His vases had something standing in them, something very stale.

  They turned to walk out. A young girl in an orange sweater, purple slacks and smiling, was walking with a very fragile white-haired old lady.

  “We’re looking for the Sheikh,” said the young girl laughing.

  “He’s down there,” pointed Hank, “down there in that dark corner.”

  They walked over and looked.

  “Oh my god,” said the old woman, “look at all these empty vaults. I’m too close to these empty vaults!”

  “Oh, Mary, you’ve got a long way to go yet!”

  “No, I haven’t. No, I haven’t!”

  “Mary . . . ”

  “Let’s get out of here!”

  They hurried past Vicki and Hank.

  “Peter Lorre is just around the corner,” said the young girl to Hank as they went past.

  “Thanks.”

  They walked around and looked at Peter. He looked just like the rest of them. They moved on. They walked about casually. It was pleasant. All clean and secure and dull. No pain.

  Vicki wanted to steal a glass vase but she wanted a hand-cut glass vase. Hank talked her out of it. “They may search us. With a face like mine . . . ”

  “You’ve got a beautiful face. I’ve always admired you. You’re one of the few real men I’ve known . . . .”

  “Thanks, but leave the vase.”

  “Tell me I’m pretty.”

  “You’re pretty, and I like very much being with you.”

  They kissed in the tombs. Then they walked toward the entrance. Three men were up front. They were locking the door.

  “Oh,” said Vicki.

  They ran. “Hey! Hey!” yelled Hank, “wait a minute!”

  The door was locked. They beat on the door. The men turned. One came forward and put a key in, opened the door.

  “It’s closing time,” he said.

  “O.K. thanks . . . ”

  The keepers walked off and Vicki and Hank walked down toward the car. They got in and Hank bummed a cigarette.

  “Of course,” he said, “it’s no good now, but think if we had been locked in there? Wouldn’t it have been wonderful?”

  “Well, you can think of it that way. I figure we got all the benefits . . . We didn’t get locked in but we almost did.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  They were on the street again. “Look, Vicki, let’s stop off at my place . . . ”

  “Why? You want to see if she left a note? You want to see if she might phone?”

  “That’s over, I tell you. It’s history, deader than a Douglas Fairbanks tomb. I just want to leave a note for Marty. Marty said he was coming by tonight. I don’t want to hang him up. I just want to leave a note on the door.”

  “You’ve still got her on your mind.”

  “I just don’t want to hang up Marty. Now don’t spoil a good afternoon.”

  “It has been a good afternoon, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  They got to the place. Hank had the front court.

  “Just drive up on the lawn.”

  Vicki parked it and they went on in.

  “God,” she said, “this place is filthy! Got a broom?”

  “Trauma,” he said, “forget it. Sit down.”

  He gave Vicki three or four books and she sat there. He let the water run in the tub. He heard her laughing. Well, they were pretty fair books. He had written them.

  He got into the tub. The Wormwood Review No. 44 was on the edge of the tub. He began to read the first page:

  From a Letter by Henry Green to G.W.—dated June 9, 1954 in W.R. Archives:

  A man falls in love because there is something wrong with him. It is not so much a matter of his health as it is of his mental climate: as, in winter, one longs for the spring . . .

  It went on, and ended:

  It is the horror we feel of ourselves, that is of being alone with ourselves, which draws us to love, but this love should happen only once, and never be repeated. If we have, as we should, learnt our lesson, which is that we are, all and each of us, always and finally alone.

  Hank got out and toweled. Vicki was still laughing. “Your writing’s so raw. You’re too goddamned much.”

  “Thanks, kid . . . ”

  He walked into the bedroom and got into some fresh clothes. He got the shoes on and then checked the place out. He decided to see if the back screen door was locked. He stepped into the back porch. There was something in the way. A batch of tin and on top of it a bottle of pills and under the bottle of pills a note scrawled on the back of an old envelope:

  Hank—

  I’m leaving this cooler

  For the fifteen collars

  I owe you—

  The pills for your tired

  Blood

  The panties to smell

  While you masturbate—

  Carol

  Hank hooked the back door, threw the latch on the porch door and walked out front.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “Your place would be nice.”

  “Sure, but don’t you want to wait for a phone call?”

  “There won’t be a phone call.”

  “Why not?”

  “I told you: one loves, the other decides.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic.”

  They got into the car and drove off. She turned down Normandie.

  “Wait,” said Hank, “I’ve got a pair of panties in my pocket. I wonder if they’d fit you?”

  “Don’t get vicious with me,” she said.

  “I’m not getting vicious.”

  “I know you’re not.”

  “Look, we’re not even shacked and we’re having our first argument,” Hank said.

  “Look,” she said, “it’s a beautiful evening.”

  “Yes.”

  She took Franklin to Bronson, then up north on Bronson.

  “And look—there’s a Backyard Sale! Let’s go to the Backyard Sale. You buy me something and I’ll buy you something,” Vicki said.

  They got out and walked up the drive. There was a hippy-looking guy and a young girl sitting way up the drive. As they passed a row
of shrubs he took the panties out of his pocket and threw them into the brush. They hooked on a lower branch. They were yellow and they swung slightly in the breeze.

  He took her hand. She looked handsome, like a woman who knew things, or a woman who wanted to. He supposed he’d find out.

  Joe went in to take a shower and when he came out naked there was another guy on the bed and the guy had his clothes on and he was kissing with Julie. The guy looked at Joe and then kept on kissing. Julie had gotten dressed and so there they were both dressed and kissing while Joe stood there watching.

  The guy’s cock was hard and Julie reached for it, grabbed it. Then she pulled the zipper back and got it out and began tonguing it. Joe’s cock began to get hard. Then Julie had the guy’s penis in her mouth, working on it. The guy just groaned and stretched out there. The sunlight from the window glanced off and on of Julie’s head as it bobbed. Joe began masturbating. He stood right over them and began to masturbate. Then the guy came and Julie got it and then Joe pulled her head off of his tool and worked his penis into her mouth and then he came and Julie got that too.

  Julie went to the bathroom. When she came out the guy was zipped and sitting in a chair smoking a cigarette. Joe was dressed except for getting his shoes on.

  Julie said, “Joe, this is Artie. Artie, this is Joe.”

  They shook hands.

  “It finally rained the other day,” said Joe. “It was good to get that rain. First in about a year.”

  “Yeah,” said Artie, “we needed that rain.”

  “I’m hungry,” said Julie, “let’s go get something to eat.” Joe got his shoes on and they walked outside. They turned south and then right and they were on the boardwalk. There was a young black guy walking toward them. Julie drifted out as if she didn’t see him and she walked into him.

  Julie said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.”

  “That’s all right.” said the black guy.

  Julie put her face real close to his. As close as she could get without touching. Her body was the same way.

  “I should watch where I’m walking,” she laughed. She stood there and stared deeply into the black guy’s face.

  Neither of them said anything. They just stood there like that.

  When Julie walked back over to Artie and Joe, the black guy followed. The black guy said his name was Lawrence. They turned into The Happy Hunting Ground and sat at a table. Joe ordered draft beers from the waitress. Julie was to Joe’s left. She leaned forward and whispered into his ear, “Listen, Joe, I love you. I really do love you. But you’ve got to give me room, lots and lots of room.”